


with the good and careless of me

by diaghileafs



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Marriage Proposal, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 02:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diaghileafs/pseuds/diaghileafs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It’s not Edith who comes to visit Clarence in prison, nor Lix, it is always Alexis. Fixed hair and broken heart on the other side of the table. They make small talk, they sit in silence until the hour is up. They smile into each other’s eyes and it is never forced. They are not happy, they are both surviving. They would hate to admit to anyone that they are friends, not even themselves.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	with the good and careless of me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Conrad by Ben Howard. 
> 
> Completely OOC and the first thing I've written in a very, very long time - please forgive me.
> 
> TW.

She drinks little and smokes much –

Pre-rolled little packages that fit perfectly in between fingers and lips, mass manufactured to make you feel good – you, the all American gal; blonde curls and juicy lips – or at least trick you into thinking that you feel good, to reel you in. She doesn’t smoke those French ones anymore, memories hide in their smoke. Memories of Him. Memories of her.

 - she is probably the oldest woman at this party, but undoubtedly the thinnest. She is as thin as the knife that the condemned man on the front of the paper used to slaughter his victims. She feels oddly envious of him, this monster, this supposedly sub-human, not having to live his sins, not having to carry them with him every single goddamn day of his goddamn life. He got the easy way out, that’s for sure. The electric chair burned the mistakes up in every vein, blood boiling for purification, twisted absolution. She envies him.

Tonight she is Lix Storm, courageous lady-reporter, in her slacks and button-down shirts to make the girls wink. Alexis stayed at home, of course she did, party dress and glassy eyes. Crying, candid eyes of a child. Her child. Their child, never to be his. She’s going to be sick.

Behind the bushes, away from the bright lights and hushed conversation. A schoolgirl again, Queen Alexandra, Head Girl – how she laughs before she weeps. The air is icy, almost alcoholic as she gulps in, filling her lungs until it hurts, until she feels pain. Pain like She did. Pain like all those poor souls she watched die on Nationalist ground. Saviours’ Guilt, they call it.

A throat is cleared in front of her and she looks up into kind, unfamiliar eyes. She wants to say _R-----_    

“I thought you might be in need of refreshment.”

His voice is as soft as the green of his eyes, and terribly (disgustingly) English. She smiles and wipes her eyes, her mouth. He doesn’t mention the tears illuminated on her cheeks, he is noble at least.

“Thank you, thank you,” it hangs in the few inches between them, “sorry, I don’t… I don’t-”

“Fendley,” he says gently, “Clarence Fendley.”

She is stammering, she is shaking, “Alexis Storm.”

The glass warming up in his palm is pressed into hers, “drink up then, Alexis.”

“Lix, please. Lix.”

 

\---

 

That night, she takes him home. La belle pute. To her tiny flat, crammed with faded photographs and crimson-rimmed coffee cups. It’s dark and dingy, she daren’t turn on the light, to see is to know. Pretending is easier. He gives her Gauloises to light, and she smokes them only to make him hiss when she burns her fingertips.

She kisses him gently, it is everything and nothing in a single breathing. She feels empty, she feels home. He is not Randall (lover, protector, torturer) and perhaps that’s safer. Maybe there’s lust to be found in that. But love, never love. Tchaikovsy. Swan Lake. The walls shake with it. He touches her like she’s something special, a thing to be treasured, exploring her skin, her bones. To be beautiful is to be almost dead. He says nothing when she folds his clothes.

She wants to love him.

He knows she is in love with someone else, but she will never believe it when he’s shouting it at her. A ring on the tiles. She will fall, open-wounded knee, onto the world she built up to escape Madrid. From the dead foundations of shattered desires, laced with whiskey and torn-up letters, she falls.

_Lix, I need you._

_Alexis, I love you._

_Come back._

_The baby._

_The baby._

_The baby._

 

\---

 

It’s not Edith who comes to visit Clarence in prison, nor Lix, it is always Alexis. Fixed hair and broken heart on the other side of the table. They make small talk, they sit in silence until the hour is up. They smile into each other’s eyes and it is never forced. They are not happy, they are both surviving. They would hate to admit to anyone that they are friends, not even themselves.

One day he takes her hand.

The next day, he whispers, “I’m getting you Randall Brown.”

She whispers, “darling,” and squeezes his hand back.


End file.
